Don't Make Me Axe You Again
by BiteMeTechie
Summary: *CAT* There are certain people you shouldn't upset. People with axes are up there on the top of the list.
1. Chapter 1

CATverse A/N: This story is part of the massive fanfiction project known as the CATverse. You can find the list of stories in chronological order at http: / w w w. freewebs. com/ catverse (remove the spaces!)

A/N: None of this is my fault. It's all Monty Python. All of it. EVERY WORD.

Incidentally, I will never be able to listen to the Lumberjack Song ever again.

-

Hick. Hillbilly. Redneck. White trash. Trailer trash.

_Southerner._

To many people, these are some of the worst insults known to man. Sometimes for good reason, sometimes not. Contrary to popular belief, the entire population beneath the Mason Dixon line is _not_ made up of uneducated drunken rednecks with shotguns and confederate flags; indeed, many people in the south are quite nice, quite smart and just as civilized as the rest of the world (which, considering the state of the human race, probably isn't saying much).

Glen-Troy Morrison however, wasn't one of them. In fact, he lived up to--and even _surpassed_--every single southern stereotype in recorded history, with the exception that he didn't like shotguns _near_ as much as he liked axes.

Now, Glen-Troy lived a nice, quiet life, as far as redneck lives go. He ran a rundown no-tell-motel in the south which took up quite a bit of his free time, but left him with enough to pursue his favorite hobby.

In this, Glen-Troy was different from ordinary rednecks. He liked to hunt and fish as much as the next man, but his favorite pastime was by far the fine art of serial murder. Glen-Troy couldn't tell you _where_ the compulsion to kill his motel tenants came from, I highly doubt even a licensed psychologist could do _that_, but he took as much pleasure from it as a regular Joe might take from a weekend in the Caribbean.

Glen-Troy's constant companion (and in his warped opinion, his only true friend), was an axe his daddy Louis had given him as a boy. When Louis had bestowed this treasure to his son, he most likely thought that Glen-Troy would be a good boy and go help with cutting cords of wood for the family.

Naturally, it came as quite a surprise to Louis when Glen-Troy buried his new present three inches deep in his daddy's skull. The old man had been surprised and Glen-Troy had been gleeful. He figured it was a win-win thing. Everyone likes a good surprise, after all!

Mama Dora-Lou hadn't agreed about this particular surprise being a nice one, because when Glen-Troy bounded back into the house, with his axe dangling from one hand, grinning maniacally as he left a trail of blood and brain matter behind him on her freshly scrubbed kitchen floor and shouted "Look what I did wif my new axe, Mama!", she stared first at her precious baby, then at the axe, and then past him out into the yard where his father lay slumped in a heap.

Then, the screaming started.

The neighbors heard and came 'round when they heard her hollering like a banshee, and everyone assumed Dora-Lou had finally lost it and murdered her no good cheating husband in a fit of insanity. Her incoherent screaming and babbling as she tried to scoop her husband's brain back into his skull certainly seemed to support the theory that she'd gone barking mad, though no one seemed to be angry at her for it.

"After all," Ellen Sanderson had said after the news broke, "Everyone _knows_ he was runnin' around with that hussy from the post office. I know if my Earl ever did anythin' like that, I might get his shotgun down and do the same, can't really blame her for teachin' that man a lesson."

The Morrison family was a topic of gossip for weeks after Dora-Lou was carted away to the local insane asylum and Glen-Troy was sent to live with his aunt and uncle several miles down the road, but no one ever suspected that Glen-Troy, the little golden haired, poor unfortunate angel, was the perpetrator of the heinous crime that everyone was talking about.

How it was that Glen-Troy managed to keep the axe without anyone knowing, no one could tell you, but keep it he did, and when he was old enough to know how to read and write, he decided that his friend needed a proper name. A nice name. A good strong name.

It took him a long time to find just the right one, but when he did, he pestered his uncle Martin for weeks until he finally caved in and told him how to spell it.

He carved it into the handle proudly with the pocket knife his uncle had given him for his seventh birthday, and 'Spartacus Bob' was born.

Glen-Troy and Spartacus Bob were inseparable, and when Glen-Troy inherited his Aunt and Uncle's rundown motel (after their 'mysterious' disappearances, which strangely coincided with his eighteenth birthday), Spartacus Bob moved into the managerial apartment with his master.

Just like in a fairy tale, they lived happily ever after for about fifteen years, and by that point, Glen-Troy wasn't the little golden haired, poor unfortunate angel that most of his old neighbors remembered ('angel' wasn't exactly the term that sprang to mind when you thought of him.); oh, his hair was still just as blonde as ever, except now it was thinning and resembled filthy dishwater, and he had a nasty habit of murdering people who crossed his path that he didn't take an immediate shine to.

Of course, he killed the others too, but the ones he took a shine to got to live a little while longer…and they got special treatment from Spartacus Bob. Where his quick kills were less than skillful, if he wanted to make a very nice impression and keep Spartacus Bob happy and sharp, he'd scalp and stuff his victim of the evening, gathering a nice sized collection of 'dolls' (for that's what he called them), which lived in room 206.

Whenever Glen-Troy got lonesome and he wanted more company than Spartacus Bob (who was the strong silent type), he'd go talk to his dolls, telling them about his day and promising to bring them a new friend very soon.

Sometimes, he'd imagine their responses and giggle at them in that slightly unhinged tone he had, but mostly, he just talked to them.

He went on this way for many years, until, closing in on his fortieth birthday, on a fateful night in March, everything changed.

Strangers arrived at the motel…and Glen-Troy took a special liking to them.

Of course, that was before they axe-napped Spartacus Bob. He didn't like them very much after that.

All he was trying to do was lop off the little one's head. What was so terrible about that? It's not like he was going to make it _hurt_…

Much.

But she had to grab hold of Spartacus Bob's handle in mid swing and pry it from his hands. She'd caught him so off guard, that he just stood there for a split second, trying to force the rusty gears in his head into turning fast enough to grasp the fact that someone was facing him without a scream and a lot of over-dramatics--and was instead acting like a horror movie veteran.

The chase that resulted when he finally caught up with what was going on was quite impressive, but that was beside the point. At the end of the encounter, the little bitch had made off with Glen-Troy's bestest, bestest buddy in the whole wide world.

He _actually_ saw red. In all his life, he'd never been parted from Spartacus Bob, and the sudden loss sent him over the precipice that he'd been wandering along the edge of for so many years.

Glen-Troy went from 'mildly psychotic serial killer with some control over his own actions' to 'furiously unmanageable madman with a grudge'.

The moment he'd recovered from his shock, he flew into a rage, climbed into his pick-up truck and swore to track down the axe napping bitch and kill her in the most painful way he could think of.

He made it all the way to Longboat Key without incident (that would teach the bitch to mention in passing where she was heading!), and then, by an unbelievable stroke of luck, he spotted the getaway car that they'd used to escape his clutches, and descended on them, intent on murdering them all for taking his beloved Spartacus Bob.

But then…oh, cruel fate! THEN one of them hit him with a car! Sandwiching him in between one flaming automobile and another, an event that he barely broke away from with his skin still intact.

He was badly burned, but he was still alive and kicking, and the incident made 'grudge' go to 'vendetta' so fast it made Glen-Troy's head spin.

If it was the last thing he ever did, he was going to slaughter those worthless thieving whores AND their friends!


	2. Chapter 2

Glen-Troy was far from being a smart person, this we have already established. However, there's something almost awe inspiring about the way an insane man can manage to accomplish his goals in spite of whatever enormous personal stumbling blocks there might be in his way.

In addition to his insanity and inherent stupidity, the odds were against him in every possible capacity when he entered Gotham City, searching for the Scarecrow and his three brand-new minions, and yet somehow, he _defied_ those very odds and managed to track them all down.

They had settled (if you could call it that) in an abandoned warehouse that was so large it was nearing the 'immense' spectrum with only two windows, both in very strategically inconvenient locations for someone who wanted to spy on the warehouse's inhabitants. They were set very high into either side of the building and were simple square cutouts with sharp, but somewhat rusted, metal shutters covering them. It took a great deal of effort for Glen-Troy to shimmy up the side of the warehouse--utilizing several stacked cartons and boxes to accomplish it--but he managed just the same.

The sight that greeted him caused him to fly into more of a rage than the one he'd already been in. There, within the warehouse, sitting on a threadbare sofa (which was the _only_ piece of furniture in view) was the bitch that took his beloved axe and two of her little _friends_. Furthermore, she was grinning and _cuddling_ with _his_ Spartacus Bob!

Well, okay…she was shining him up with silver polish and a clean rag. That was close enough to cuddling for Glen-Troy! To the crazy man, that was the equivalent of professing undying love to the weapon!

With all the strength any furious, adrenaline driven madman should've had, Glen-Troy grabbed the metal shutter and gave a sharp tug, rattling it back and forth on its hinges until it left its frame and plummeted to the floor inside the warehouse.

The racket caused the three women on the sofa to stand abruptly and glance at each other.

"What in the hell was _that_?" the bushy haired one asked, grabbing an aluminum pipe off the floor, tensing her shoulders as she did so, and resting it on her shoulder like a baseball bat ready to be swung.

"No idea," the brunette dropped into a crouch and reached under the sofa for a Louisville Slugger, whose weight she tested as she stood up once more. "Think it's the Bat?"

"I hope not," the bitch with Spartacus Bob in hand said, eyes narrowed and scanning the area for any movement. She held the axe with a kind of reverence that, had Glen-Troy not already decided she had to die, he might have admired and even considered to be an indicator that they were destined to be soul mates. "Squishykins would never let it slide if we led Batman to him on our _first day_."

"But we _already _led Batman to him on our first day. Remember? Flamey death? Captive Robin? Batman flattened by the Bat Blazer?"

"Stuff it, Ops."

Glen-Troy ignored this exchange and dropped from the now opened window to the ground with a spectacular 'crash!'. He twisted his ankle on impact, but it wasn't enough pain to deter him as he emerged from the shadows, eyes bright and grin that of a completely unhinged mental ward reject.

The woman with the axe looked at him when he came into view with confusion. "_You?_"

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me!" the bushy haired one exclaimed in disbelief. "Didn't I hit you with a car already? Shouldn't you be _dead_, Evil Ernie?"

The one with a baseball bat eyed him strangely. "You followed us all the way to Gotham?"

"I come fer what's _mine_," he said, jerking his head at Spartacus Bob. "I want my Axe."

The bushy haired one eyed the little one askance. "A territorial redneck with a sharp weapon fixation. You couldn't have possibly pissed off someone a little more stable, Captain? Norman Bates, maybe?"

"Don't y'all worry none, I just want my Spartacus Bob. I won't even skin ya if you give him to me," Glen-Troy flashed them a smile which was missing a few too many teeth to be anywhere near as charming as he intended it to be.

The three women looked at each other before they burst into hysterical laughter. "Spartacus Bob? You named your axe _Spartacus Bob_?"

Glen-Troy glared at them. "Gimme my Spartacus Bob and I'll kill ya nice and _quick_."

"Oh yes, a _quick death_. That's incentive if ever I heard it."

"Amateur!"

Glen-Troy lost his temper and ran headlong at the three well-armed women.

It was not the brightest move he had ever made.

The aluminum pipe swept out and slammed into his knees as the baseball bat swung out and collided with his shoulder blades. Worst of all, though, was the fact that Spartacus Bob--oh, his beloved Spartacus Bob!--slammed into his skull, splitting it in twain and dropping Glen-Troy like a sack of potatoes. It was ironic, sure, but it was _not_ what was _supposed_ to happen.

The Captain stared at the body at her feet, his rapidly draining blood soaking into the canvas of her sneakers. "Oops."

Techie stared at her in incredulity. "_Oops?_ You killed him!"

"I didn't mean to!" she defended, stepping away from Glen-Troy's corpse. "I just wanted to incapacitate him!"

"Looks pretty incapacitated to me," Al remarked, tilting her head and studying the stiff with a kind of detached interest.

The sound of the door to the Scarecrow's lab rattling open caused all three Hench girl's heads to jerk up towards the source of the sound.

"Squishums!" Techie hissed. "He'll kick us out for sure if he sees this!"

"What? Why?"

"Our first _real_ day on the job and we've let our security get breeched!"

"Oh. Good point. We should hide his body."

"_Where?_"

Captain glanced around, eyes lighting on the sofa and the small wire cartons that were serving as makeshift end tables. "We need more corpse sized furniture."

"Isn't the sofa a fold out?" Al asked, dashing for the item in question and ripping the cushions off it.

"Al! You're many kinds of brilliant!" the Captain exclaimed, joining her comrade as she unfolded the couch and Techie started dragging the body towards her frantic friends.

"Stuff him in good!"

"This is harder than putting together that turducken."

"Girls?"

"Hurry!"

"I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying!"

"His foot is sticking out, Ops! Fix it!!"

"Give me a break! It's not like I have practice at this!"

"_Girls!_"

When Jonathan Crane came into view, the Captain, Al and Techie were sitting on the suspiciously overstuffed sofa as though nothing were amiss. Captain was hanging over one of the sofa arms, Al sat in the middle, drumming her fingers on her knee and Techie was reading a magazine…upside down.

He took them in, growing more suspicious by the second. "What nefarious deeds are you three plotting?"

"Nothing," they chirped in perfect unison.

He narrowed his eyes at them. "Why didn't you come when I called."

"You called?" Al asked, blinking innocently.

"Repeatedly." He folded his arms across his chest. "I require you to go fetch some chemicals for me from Star Labs."

They glanced at each other and then back at him, nodding their assent . "Okay, boss."

He turned to stalk away from them. They breathed a collective sigh of relief when he turned away from him, but then nearly choked on their tongues when he glanced back at them over his shoulder.

"Oh…and girls? When you get back…"

"Yeah?"

He turned back and started walking away once more. "Mop up those brains."


End file.
